


Parallels

by jack_inaboxx



Series: crack in the glass [26]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Original Work
Genre: among others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:29:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_inaboxx/pseuds/jack_inaboxx
Summary: The first part of a three-parter exploring my Dragon Age characters.
Relationships: Dunsmuir/Dorian, Male Inquisitor/Dorian, Male Lavellan/Dorian
Series: crack in the glass [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774129
Kudos: 3





	Parallels

The first time he wakes up in Haven, it’s through a haze of terror. Have more memories vanished? Has he lost more of himself? Will he wake to find new chains, new jailers, even greater expectations? Or something worse?

As it turns out, it’s worse. 

They call him “the Herald” now, some great symbol of their religion. Their god. _Theirs_. They ignore his heritage, scoff at his beliefs, tread roughshod all over who he is. They say that he must have risen beyond his ‘Elven’ (said with such _scorn_ ) roots to be chosen as Herald. 

He hates them for it. He hates the world for it. 

Solas…. almost understands. He, too, scorns the Dalish, but at least he does not call him “Herald”. Solas, at least, scoffs at that in equal measure. 

And when had things grown so harsh that he so desperately latches onto someone who hates all he is, just because they, too, hate what the world has decided to see him as? 

He wants to scream, to rail against the injustice of it all, but then he would be seen only as another mad elf, gone wild in the forests. 

Instead he weeps quietly, alone in his rickety hovel, feeling his self slip away, no matter how tightly he tries to cling to it. He tries to piece his shattered beliefs together again, tries to remember his heritage. It becomes more difficult with each time he is addressed as Herald. 

One day, he snaps. He does not mean to, but he is _furious_ and he is tired of dancing around everything he is to shelter some shemlen’s fragile feelings. 

He and his inner circle are all together, for once, resting around a fire in front of Haven’s chantry, talking amongst themselves in a rare moment of peace post-stress-filled-negotiation. 

It starts out fine- talk of new operations, potential allies. Then talk turns to image, representation, reputation, and he scowls, already knowing what is coming. 

“-is fine, but the Chantry still protest an elf as Herald, especially one still so invested in his own customs.”

Josephine means well, he knows she does, but he can’t help but bristle at the implication that eventually, he’ll ‘come around’ and become- what? Andrastian?

“Perhaps if we were to present a more agreeable image, they might-” 

“ _No_ ,” he snarls, and everyone around him startles, staring outright at the unusual display of aggression. He has always been polite, compassionate, caring, the most he goes is exasperation or disappointment- seeing him outright angry is startling enough that silence is immediate. He takes a breath, trying to steady himself. He opens his mouth, intending to apologize, _of course that’s an excellent idea Josie-_

“I will _not_ hide myself just to put some fool clerics at ease! I am NOT Andrastian, much as you all seem so certain that surely I _will_ be, once I “ _see the light_ ”! I never will be, and I am _tired_ of having my own beliefs shoved under the carpet just to support your own!” 

He’s shouting by the end, and no doubt the entire town has heard him by now, but he can’t bring himself to care. The bottle has been broken, and all that’s left is for everything to pour out. 

“Call me your Herald if you must. But you do _not_ get to erase who I am! If I am to be your Herald, you _will_ acknowledge that _I am Dalish_! Proudly! You will _stop_ trying to force me to be someone I am not, and you will _stop_ trying to presume that just because you call me Herald, I must believe in your god!” 

It doesn’t get any quieter. He hasn’t realized just how much he had been shoving away, pretending to be kind, that it doesn’t matter. 

It _does_ matter, and he’s tired of pretending otherwise. 

Finally, he lowers his voice, takes a deep breath, and blinks back the tears that threaten to escape (tears of frustration or misery, he does not know. perhaps both). 

“If you carry on the way you are, I _will_ walk away from this. Damn the world, and damn your Inquisition.” 

They stare at him a while longer, while he tries to steady his breathing, relax his posture. It doesn’t work. 

He wants to be back in his forests, with his clan, nothing more to worry about than avoiding shems and where to find the next meal. 

He breathes. 

Now will come the scorn, no doubt, the judgement and disappointment and harsh discrimination. 

“You’re right.” They aren’t the words that he’d expected, and he blinks, staring at the one who’d spoken. 

Solas?

If there’s anyone he wouldn’t have expected, it’d be Solas. Had he finally convinced the man that at least the Dalish were trying to keep to their traditions, to the old ways? 

“What?” he says, and wishes it didn’t sound quite so broken. 

“You are right. How they have been treating you- how _we_ have been treating you- is intolerable.” 

He’s even more surprised when there are nods, around the circle, gradual at first but then becoming fervent, absolutely certain. Something inside him shatters, and suddenly he can’t stop the tears. 

He sits, heavily, all the fight leaving him at once. It’s immediately followed by immense guilt, and he opens his mouth to apologize. Properly, this time, because all he feels is that he has wronged people who just didn’t understand, that he had been harsh when it wasn’t needed. 

It’s Dorian that stops him. 

“Shh, amatus,” he says to him, and it will be a while before he understands what that word means. He just leans into the first person that seems truly friendly, understanding, and hides his face while he lets go of everything that has been festering inside him ever since the Conclave. 

Things get a little better. He incorporates Dalish designs into his clothing, in embroidery, charms sewn to fabric, the folds of the garments themselves. He begins to wear his jewelry again, grateful beyond words for the familiar weight of the charms and leather strips. 

Then, Haven burns. 

He has no time to ponder beliefs or lies or expectations, not through all that. Instead, there’s just power thrumming through the mark on his hand, and desperate lashing out, and the utter certainty that the world will end. 

It doesn’t. 

And with barely a breath in between, there is Skyhold, and then he is named Inquisitor. He feels like he cannot breathe, but he forces air into his lungs, and says, clear, ringing out over the gathered crowd;

“I am Dalish, I am an elf. And I stand for you, all of you, against the chaos.” 

He expects rejection, scowls and anger, but instead there is a rousing cheer, and he raises the sword into the sky, and the cheers grow. 

He becomes Inquisitor, and things get much better. 

–

Dunsmuir closes his journal, the one that he’d kept since the Conclave, just in case more memories slipped away from him. 

He has them back, now, of course, but he still writes, in his little leather-bound books, because that fear still sits in the back of his head. 

Dorian comes up behind him, quiet for once, and Dun rests his head against his fiance’s chest from where he’s sitting in his desk chair. It’s not done, yet, this ‘fight against chaos’ thing, but it’s quiet enough today that he can take some time to himself. 

“I didn’t know you had these, _amatus_ ,” Dorian murmurs, tracing a finger down the spine of one of the little books. There are seven, in total, not including the new one he had been writing in when he had recalled the others. 

“I keep them, just in case,” he says, just as quietly, and closes that first one with a heavy sigh. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” 

“I suppose we have.” Dorian is clearly curious, but Dun doesn’t say any more, and so Dorian falls silent, too. He may prefer to talk, to make light of things, but he knows when Dunsmuir just needs time, needs quiet, when to be soft and gentle, to hold and close his eyes. 

And so he does, and Dunsmuir smiles.


End file.
